


do you miss me the way i miss you?

by longhairandbarefeet



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, F/M, Post-Canon, Post-War, Raising a baby, Slow Burn, Some Humor, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2018-12-30 00:52:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12097128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longhairandbarefeet/pseuds/longhairandbarefeet
Summary: Words aren’t spoken between them at first; instead Sansa begins to hear the needy whimper of a babe. She watches as he dismounts, stumbling back, but still standing. When she steps forward, she sees the infant in his arms, a small, little thing with a head full of black hair and little arms clutching tightly to the furs on his cloak.akajon and sansa raise a baby and ignore reality





	1. this is our time now

**Author's Note:**

> title from 'second time around' by Madeline Juno

He returns after it’s all over, riding a skinny horse and holding something close to his chest. Sansa stands on the parapet, watching him ride the long way alone, and she breathes heavily, the sight of her exhales staying in front of her face because she keeps gasping for air, anxious and scared to learn what happened. 

 

When the guards let him through, she is standing in the courtyard waiting. She sees him up close and frowns; the man who left almost ten moons ago isn’t the same one standing in front of her. He’s a shell of something she can barely recognize. His hair is longer, it’s not pushed away from his face, as it was when he first laid eyes on her at Castle Black, instead it’s falling to his shoulders with streaks of white pushing through the all the dark. His face is thin, and his grey eyes are half closed probably from exhaustion. She wonders if he’s eaten anything of substance in a fortnight. 

 

Words aren’t spoken between them at first; instead Sansa begins to hear the needy whimper of a babe. She watches as he dismounts, stumbling back, but still standing. When she steps forward, she sees the infant in his arms, a small, little thing with a head full of black hair and little arms clutching tightly to the furs on his cloak.

 

“Sansa,” Jon says with his voice shaking, and cracking in between the syllables of her name. She wonders how long it’s been since he’s opened his mouth to speak. 

 

She wastes no time, her arms reach for the babe and once Jon sees that she’s safe in Sansa’s arms, still sleeping, he collapses against the snow.

 

+

 

Sansa doesn’t quite know what to do, she’s not held a babe as small as this one in her arms since her mom placed little Rickon in the small length of her wrist and elbow, resting on her forearm for just a few minutes at a time because he’d always crying helplessly for their mother’s milk. 

 

She brings the babe to her chambers, trying to find extra blankets to wrap her in because she shakes like she has never known warmth.

 

“Josey!” Sansa shouts, standing in her doorway and her maid rushes through the halls and over to her, wiping her hands on her aprons and gasping at the sight of the baby in Lady Stark’s arms. “I need a wet nurse, immediately. I don’t think she’s eaten in days.”

“Right away, milady.” Josey left the room in a hurry, and Sansa let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. She sits in the chair by the fireplace, the place she sits when she stitches her clothing or writes her letters, and now she holds a restless babe in her arms here too. In a fleeting moment she wonders if she still has the rocking chair her mother had used to lull all of her children to sleep, but she knows it didn’t survive the Greyjoys or the Boltons, not a lot had. Her chest tightens and she looks back down at the babe. 

 

“We will feed you, sweetling, don’t you worry.” Sansa whispers to her. “I’ll take care of you.” 

 

+

 

Jon wakes up a fortnight later in a panic. 

 

“Where is she? Where is she?” Jon shouts to the maester who is tending to his wounds, and the maester nods his head to a servant and the servant rushes off. Jon lays still, unable to move or stand because his strength has yet to return. 

 

The servant returns a moment later with Sansa rushing in behind her. 

 

“Leave us.” Sansa commands, and the servants and the maester leave the room without a single word from their mouths. She sits in the chair by his bed, and lets out a withered sigh. She’s spent almost every day in this chair, singing to the babe and wondering if Jon will wake up from his long sleep. 

 

“Where’s the...“ Jon’s voice is scratchy, and she wonders if he can’t say it, if he’s wondering if the babe survived the traveling, and she smiles because not only had she survived, she sleeps soundly in a crib that sits in Sansa’s chambers. 

 

“She’s asleep,” Sansa replies, looking at her hands because without trying or meaning to, she has formed a bond with the little girl. “And she’s well, getting fatter by the day.”

 

“Sansa,” Jon whispers, relief in his tone. She looks up, and he’s smiling at her. It looks so much like the smiles that the babe gives Sansa when she sees her, warm and genuine and so very Stark. “I can’t thank you enough. I know this isn’t easy.” 

 

“She’s a beautiful babe,” Sansa says, ignoring his thanks. “What will you name her?”

 

“I don’t know,” Jon replies, attempting to sit up and against the pillows and failing because he’s falling back down against the mattress with a thump a moment later. Sansa reaches for his arm, and helps him sit up. “I hadn’t thought of one yet.”

 

“Might I suggest something Northern?” Sansa says, and Jon nods. “I was hoping you could call her Arya, she looks so much like her, even has her wildness. If you wanted something else, maybe to honor her mother- -” 

 

“It’s perfect, Sansa.” Jon interrupts, reaching for her hand that sits on his bed on top of the blankets. “Arya will love that.”

 

It’s then that Sansa learns where her sister has gone, leaving the North with Nymeria and Gendry at her side.

 

“Will she come home?” Sansa asks after a long stretch of silence. She’s relieved to learn of her sister surviving, but she shudders at the thought of never seeing her again.

 

“Aye, someday, but I think she is happy.” Jon returns her question with a hopeful smile. 

 

“Good,” Sansa grins, although she chokes back a sob. “She deserves it.” 

 

+

It takes him a few weeks to get out of bed, but Sansa brings Arya to see him everyday while he lies there. It becomes something of a routine, and one that Sansa didn’t realize she could get used to. She hadn’t seen her family in many moons and accepting that maybe she’d never see any of them again, but now she has Jon and baby Arya, and suddenly she doesn’t feel so alone anymore. 

 

“She smiles only at you,” Jon remarks, holding the babe against his chest and Arya looks up at him, confusion in her wide grey eyes and bottom lip pouted as she prepares to wail. “I don’t think she likes me.” 

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sansa scoops the baby into her arms, and sits in the chair. It takes only a second for Arya to begin smiling and laughing, a tiny sound that makes both Sansa and Jon smile at each other. Sansa feels a burning in her stomach akin to happiness. “She’s your daughter, she loves you.” 

 

“She loves you too.” Jon says almost immediately, and the burning in her stomach only grows hotter.

+

 

“You need a haircut.” Sansa says, sitting across from Jon at the breakfast table and he looks at her. It’s grown even longer and wilder since he’s returned, sitting past his shoulders and since he’s not worn it tied up, it gets in his face wherever he goes, whatever he does. He looks more like a wildling than royalty.

 

“I know, Arya has started grabbing it and pulling it out, she’s got a mean grip.” Jon replies, taking a bite of his food and rubbing a tender spot on his scalp. Sansa has learned to tie her hair up off her neck after an unfortunate braid and ribbon incident with the babe. 

 

“I can do it.” Sansa says, and he scrunches his brows. She knows he wanted to tease her, remind her of the time she got ahold of a pair of scissors and gave her doll a complete makeover, it turned disastrous and none of her siblings let her live it down. “Don’t look at me like that, I can. I was five when I cut Princess Rhaella’s hair, you can’t hold that against me forever, Jon Snow!” 

 

“Aye, you are right.” Jon replies, chuckling, nostalgia present in his grey eyes. “I’ll let you cut my hair, milady.” 

 

+

 

“Hold still,” Sansa rolls her eyes. She has cut most of the extra length off, the hair settling in little piles on her chamber floors, but as she tries to even it up, he can’t stop moving about like an impatient toddler. “I won’t have you walk around the castle looking ridiculous.”

 

“It’s hair Sansa,” Jon replies, sighing deeply as he closes his eyes, avoiding her glaring eyes. She doesn’t know what he’s thinking, can’t pinpoint every thought in his brain. It was never a skill she learned to acquire, not like her other siblings mastered, but she does try. “It’ll grow back. It always does.” 

 

“I don’t want to have to cut it too short,” she says, running her fingers through the length, liking the way he involuntarily moans at her touch, and she smiles at him. “I like it like this.” 

 

“I shall learn to sit still, then.” 

+

 

They continue to rebuild, just as the walls of Winterfell are repaired, so is the delicate relationship they had before he left for war. 

 

It surprises her, the way he and Arya so intricately fit into her life. She can’t help but look forward to evenings in her solar, where she cradles Arya to her chest and attempts to muffle laughter that escapes from her mouth because Jon knows how to make her sides ache. He tells her stories, ones she knows well and ones she’s never heard before, but no matter the story, she likes to watch the way he articulates them. He’s not the same man she shared a hug with in the training yards at the Wall or the one who left for Dragonstone with a wave, but somehow she loves the one who sits in front of her just as much. 

 

It’s only later, after Arya falls asleep in her crib and Jon dozes in the chair beside of her that Sansa wonders if she loves him now a little bit more. 

 

+

 

She doesn’t know why she asks, it’s never the right time to speak to him about it because his relationship with Daeneyrs Targaryen was what caused a major rift in their relationship in the first place, but an overabundance of wine loosens her lips.

 

“What happened to her mother, Jon?” Sansa asks, watching his tipsy grin turn into a stilted frown. Arya is entirely Stark, a little wolf in her furs, a winter rose, but when Sansa sings to her in the morning to wake her up and the babe’s laugh fills the room like the sunlight pouring in from the windows, she knows that she’s heard that same sound before once, and it was coming from the Dragon Queen. 

 

“I don’t want to speak of it.” Jon replies hastily, taking another long sip of his wine. He averts his eyes, the same way he had when he first woke up two moons before, and she knows he wishes to change the subject, but inebriated Sansa is even more stubborn than the sober one. 

 

“What if I do?” Sansa says emboldened, and she can see that he’s none to pleased with her. He’s nursing a fire in his eyes, deep inside his bones, and it’s the first time she’s seen the dragon underneath the wolf. 

 

“Really? Never much liked her mother if I remember, correctly? You called her a foreign whore, and said you hoped that she’d freeze to death.” Jon scowls, and Sansa flinches as she remembers that conversation like it was yesterday. She was angry with him, angry he returned with a stranger and even more angry he accepted that stranger as his queen. 

 

“I was furious that night.” She admits with her voice softening as his demeanor begins to soften too. “I didn’t mean it, any of it.” 

 

“I know you didn’t, sweet girl.” Jon amends, using an endearment that startles her breathing, and then he’s reaching over to grab hold of her hand. She likes the way his fingers feel as they tangle with her own, and how natural it feels to touch him. “I promise that I will tell you what happened when I am ready, but right now, can we just drink this spiced wine and pretend nothing bad has ever happened to us, please?” 

 

She studies his face, the way he looks at her like she has the key to all of his unanswered questions.

 

“Yeah, Jon.” Sansa nods, laying her head on his shoulder. “we can pretend for a little while longer.”


	2. kiss me on my forehead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I had meant to update this ages ago, but I had ear surgery and it took me out of commission for a little while, so hopefully this makes up for it! 
> 
> i appreciate all the kudos/comments, they mean the world to me :)
> 
> it's also unbeta'd and I am the master of run on sentences, so I do apologize and hope you still enjoy!

Arya grows like a weed, able to hold her head up and although she is too young to speak, it doesn’t stop her from trying. Sansa isn’t sure she’s loved someone like this before. Sure, she loved all of her younger siblings; from the moment she felt them kick inside her mother’s stomach, she loved her big brother Robb, and her parents. She loved her friends from when she was growing up, and she loved Lady, but after everything, after the Lannister’s cut her father’s head off, she thought maybe she’d run out of love or maybe that ability was broken. She knows now that she was wrong. 

 

“Sweet dreams, my darling.” Sansa whispers to the babe after she had finished singing one of her favorites to her, Arya’s eyes already shut and her mouth half open. 

 

Sansa thought she hadn’t known any songs anymore, remembering nights in King’s Landing when all the music and hope inside of her died, but now she sings the love songs her mother used to sing to her, and wonders if she’ll ever truly have this with a child of her own, the lonely thought gnawing at her heart. 

 

“You have such a beautiful voice.” Jon says from the shadowed doorway, surprising her, and she flushes pink at his compliment. She used to sing to her siblings all the time, even when they didn’t care to hear her, but Jon wasn’t like them, he always clapped after she finished. 

 

“Thank you, Jon.” 

 

+

 

“Tyrion has sent a letter from King’s Landing.” Sansa says, and Jon stiffens with his fork and knife still in his hands. They had just sat down for dinner, and she wasted no time at telling him.

 

“What does he want?” Jon replies, taking a small bite of his food. It’s been almost four moons since he’s returned, and the only information she has gotten from him is that Tyrion seeks to rebuild the South, that the North is to remain independent indefinitely, and too many people have perished to wage a war against those terms. She doesn’t ask if he will ever claim the Iron Throne, but she can guess what his answer would be.

 

“He wishes to discuss the child,” Sansa looks down at her napkin that sits in her lap. “He wants to know what you plan to do with her.”

 

“Plan to do with her?” Jon scrunches his brows and glares daggers at her, clearly irritated at the phrasing of her sentence. “She’s not a goddamn castle or piece of property, she’s my child, Sansa.” 

 

“I know that, Jon.” Sansa returns his irritation with some of her own. “I can only walk on eggshells around you and this situation so long before I want to pull my hair out.” 

 

“What are you talking about?” 

 

“I am talking about this little, bizarre fantasy we are living in.” Sansa says with sourness in her tone, her expression just as biting. “Since you’ve gotten back, we’ve ignored everything outside of the castle walls. We can’t do that forever. I can’t do it forever.” 

 

He looks at her, and she wonders if he hears the desperation in the way she says the last sentence. She knows her titles, her role as Lady of Winterfell, the part she plays every single day for her people, but somehow this rapport she has with Jon has turned her inside out, made her doubt everything. She doesn’t know the line with him anymore. Brother. Cousin. 

 

“I’ve been selfish,” Jon says quietly, covering her hand with his and she lets out a breath at the warmth of his calloused palms. “You’ve done so much for me, for Arya. I don’t know what we’d do without you, Sansa.” She can’t help but smile at him. 

 

“I’m glad, I shiver at the thought of you both leaving.” Sansa laughs, doing her best to lighten the heaviness of her sentence. She averts her eyes, knowing that she couldn’t possibly look into his at this moment, the way they always beg her to be completely and brutally honest. 

 

“I won’t leave you,” Jon says, bringing her hand, so small and perfect within his, to his lips. She watches the way his lips brush hesitantly over her knuckles, leaving a feather light kiss. “Not again.” 

 

Sansa remembers the days when she’d dream of some handsome Southron knight with soft hands who’d sing her songs and tell her pretty things that would make her swoon, but now her dreams are slowly filling with a dark Northern prince with rough hands who’s smile reminds her of her childhood and who’s quiet words are so warm that her whole body flushes as red as her hair. 

 

“I shall write Tyrion tonight, let him know that you have no plans to return south, and that Arya has no plans to go south. ” Sansa replies with a grin, she knows they still have so much to resolve, that her statement about them living in a fantasy world hasn’t been properly addressed yet, but she watches the way he smiles, and knows its enough for now.

 

+

 

Sansa wonders when the nights get too cold, when the furs she buries herself in aren’t enough to quell her shaking shoulders, or the chattering of her teeth. She thinks it’s what makes her tip toe over to Jon’s chambers and knock lightly. 

 

“Sansa? Is everything alright?” Jon answers rubbing his eyes, and opening the door in such a hurried manner she jumps back. She knows he assumes something is wrong with Arya, but she is fine, safe, and sleeping deeply in her cradle beside Sansa’s bed. 

 

“I couldn’t sleep.” She says with the furs wrapped tight around her shoulders and she is looking down at her bare feet with a nervous smile perched on her lips. “I thought maybe you could—, like when we were little, maybe—“ Sansa finds herself unable to finish her sentence, hoping he’ll finish it in his head, but based on his blank expression she knows he doesn’t get what she is heavily implying. She sighs, and turns her head to look back at her chambers, preparing to shift away alone.

 

“You never invited me to your sleepovers.” Jon responds in a teasing tone with his brow crinkling. She stops herself, and turns, thinking back to nights under the covers with her brothers and Arya, giggling and retelling scary stories, but Jon is absent in every memory. It sends a shooting pang in her chest, and she shoves it down with a crooked smile and a tilt of her head. 

 

“I invited you, once or twice I am sure.” Sansa replies softly, and she knows it’s not true, but he smiles at her anyways. “But it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? I’m inviting you now, Jon.” 

 

“I accept,” Jon says with a nod. “Just let me just grab a tunic or something.” It’s only then does she realize he’s only wearing a pair of black breeches, and she swallows harshly at the sight of his chest. Sansa feels silly letting it take any affect on her, she’s seen him like this many times, she helped dress his wounds when he returned home almost everyday, but now as he stands in the dimness of his bedroom, the faint light dancing off his features, it feels different. 

 

“You don’t have to—” Sansa whispers, and she doesn’t mean for it to come out breathy and needy, but it sounds like that to her, and based on the way he’s looking at her she thinks he heard the neediness in her voice too. “I just, I mean, if you are comfortable, you can come like that.” 

 

“Okay,” Jon closes the door behind him, wrapping his arm instinctively around her waist, and rubbing his palm flat against her lower back. She instantly feels warmth again. 

 

+

 

Jon comes to her room every night after the first one, and she doesn’t mind it. They never discuss the sleeping arrangements with anyone, they keep it a secret, and somehow Sansa thinks it’s easier to hide it from the castle than to explain it. She doesn’t know what she’d tell anyone anyways. 

 

“Did you know that you snored?” Jon says, climbing into the bed with a sheepish grin. Sansa takes this opportunity to throw a pillow at him. 

 

“I do not snore.” 

 

“You do too,” Jon replies with a nod as he settles beside of her on his unofficial side of the bed, and she can feel his eyes on her as she gently rocks the cradle to lull Arya to sleep. 

 

“Has anyone ever told you how rude it is to stare?” Sansa turns her head to meet his eye, and she watches his bottom lip quiver, and his entire countenance change. She smiles, letting him know that she was joking around, but he remains still, his eyes still haven’t looked away from her, and she hopes she hasn’t offended him. “Jon, I was only japing.” 

 

“I wasn’t hurt, sweet girl, I just I can’t help myself, staring at you has become one of my favorite things to do.” Jon whispers as he licks his bottom lip, and she inadvertently lets out a gentle sigh, unsure what to think of his response. He continues. “I can’t help it, trust me. I have tried to stop.” Jon reaches over and places his hand on the side of her face; he rubs his thumb along her cheekbone. She can’t help but close her eyes at his touch. 

 

“We mustn’t.” Sansa says with her voice straining. She hadn’t been touched like this by many people before, only a handsome squire from the Vale who tried to help her forget about Ramsey. It was a very brief affair while Jon was away in Dragonstone, and it helped her for a short time. She realizes now, as Jon studies her features with his nimble fingers, that maybe she used Harry to forget about Jon too. 

 

“Why not?” Jon replies, leaning forward to press a kiss to the corner of her mouth and she pulls away shaking her head.

 

“I—” Sansa stutters, unable to coherently form a reasonable answer even though there were a thousand and one reasons why this would be a bad idea. Jon looks at her with expectancy. “I—”

 

“You have five seconds to come up with something or I’ll take that as you giving me permission.” 

 

“Permission to do what?” Sansa questions. 

 

“To kiss you...” 

 

It only takes her three seconds to watch the fantasy fall into fragments around the bed. 

 

“I won’t replace _her._ ” 

 

Her answer is so effective that he pulls away from her without a word, and leaves her chambers. 

 

+

 

“I thought I’d find you here.” 

 

Sansa turns to see him approaching her slowly, with his furs billowing out behind him. She spends many days on the battlements, staring out at the vastness and the snow. It’s become her favorite place to think. They hadn’t talked much since that night, only discussing matters about Arya and even then everything has been clipped and cordial.

 

“I’m not a hard person to track down.” Sansa says with her brow raised, and her tone as sharp as the blade on his belt. 

 

“I came to apologize.” Jon says moving to stand only a few feet away from her. “I was an idiot, and acted on my base desires like a green boy in a brothel.” He groans, and she frowns at his wording. 

 

“Wait...did you just compare me to a whore?” Sansa asks with a teasing smile, and she chuckles because maybe a long time ago she would have been highly offended by his phrasing, but right now she thinks it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. 

 

“You are the furthest thing from a whore.” Jon says firmly, his eyes blazing with slight frustration.

 

“An apology, and a compliment?” She says and Jon looks at her. She can see he’s struggling, and shifting around, but still staring intently. She thinks he’s worried he’s actually done something wrong, but she shakes her head. “I’m teasing, can’t you tell—”

 

“I know, gods be damned, when you tease me it makes me want to kiss you more.” Jon says, walking closer, and stopping directly in front of her. He doesn’t touch her, but she can feel the heat radiating off his skin. “Does that make me a glutton for punishment?” 

 

“Yes.” Sansa replies looking down at her hands, trying hard to suppress the warmth spreading to her cheeks. She thinks he knows that she feels the same, but she refuses to bend her principles, knowing that kissing him wouldn’t solve anything long term. “I suppose it does.” 

 

+

 

Arya begins her vocabulary with a word that shifts things even more for them. Sansa sits on the rug in front of the fire, Arya sits beside her on her blanket as she tries to babble words and blow tiny spit bubbles. Jon sits at the desk, and finishes a letter meant for Sam. 

 

“Mama!” Arya screams, and Sansa looks down at her with her mouth agape. She shouldn’t allow it, the feeling of excitement build in her bones and swell of pride, but she can’t help it. “Mama! Mama!” 

 

“Did she just say....” Jon says, walking over and kneeling beside of them. Sansa nods with an enthusiastic laugh, and they both smile at each other. 

 

“Mama!” Arya shouts again, arms reaching for Sansa. Normally she’d have already picked her up, but now it feels wrong and so she looks at Jon, waiting for some form of approval. He only chooses to nod. Sansa scoops her up, pressing her to her chest with her head lying against her shoulder, and she presses a kiss to the crown of her head. 

 

+

 

“It was after the war, I didn’t even know she was pregnant until after the Night King had fallen, until after she was already sick...” Jon says from the doorway, startling her from her work. She does her paperwork late at night sometimes, after Arya has already fallen asleep. “I rushed, I didn’t stop riding until I got there so I could find some way to fix her, make her better.” Jon walks towards her, and sits in the chair across from hers. “I remember opening the flap of the tent, and, gods, it smelled like death, the worst smell I had ever breathed in and I had just come from the battle fields where men were dying every second.” Jon closes his eyes tight, and Sansa moves to rest her hand on his.

 

“It’s okay, I’m right here.” Sansa soothes, her thumb rubbing circles and he exhales. 

 

“I could barely recognize her, she was so pale and thin and tired. She was covered in a sheet of sweat even though we were beyond the Wall, I think that’s when I knew that nothing I did was going to be enough to save her.” He looks at his feet, and sniffs loudly. “She was hallucinating a lot, at least that’s what Missandei told me when I got there. She mumbled about her brothers, about Khal Drogo, her husband that had died long ago from a witch’s curse, and then, well of our Arya.” Jon clears his throat and continues. “The last thing she told me was that she wanted me and the babe to be happy, to find our home.” 

 

“Jon—" 

 

“Dany and I weren’t in love, Sansa. I cared for her very much, I saw something in her that I saw in myself, a need to belong, a constant need to prove ourselves, but it wasn’t true love with us. She knew where my heart was, where it’s always been, even when I tried to pretend, and, gods, I don’t want to pretend anymore.” 

 

“What are you trying to say, Jon?” 

 

“That I’m in love with you, and I’ve been in love with you for a while.” 

 

She responds by pressing her lips to his, hoping that her mouth will tell him that she's in love with him too without saying a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! I really appreciate it! 
> 
> idk if I am gonna update a third part, just depends if you guys would like to see anything else in this particular verse. I have a couple modern ideas I will be working on and of course tumblr prompts! :)

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! I love comments and kudos so much, they are so very appreciated honestly. I hope to have this finished up within a week or two! 
> 
> it's unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine!
> 
> If you have questions, come find me on tumblr: youcancalllmequeenjane.tumblr.com I love chatting and fangirling and discussing this beautiful otp :)


End file.
